


Belated

by cowboyguy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday Cake, Birthday Fluff, Caring Dean Winchester, Gen, Sam Winchester's Hell Trials, Sick Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 04:54:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13474107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboyguy/pseuds/cowboyguy
Summary: Written for this prompt:It's Dean's birthday. One year, while living in the bunker, Dean is off in the garage working on the Impala because he wants to relax. But then he notices that he hasn't seen Sam all morning, and Sam usually comes in at least once just to hang out. So he goes in search of his brother and eventually finds Sam in the kitchen, where Sam is trying, but completely failing, to make a birthday cake. Because we all know Dean is the real chef in the family.





	Belated

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at [my Livejournal.](https://cowboyguy.livejournal.com/tag/fic%3A%20belated)

Every once in a while, Dean Winchester got a normal Saturday. No hunts, no monsters, no research, no life or death or sacrifice or heartbreak. Just a quiet day, some good tunes, and the peace and quiet of the garage in the bunker. He was free to tune up the Impala, or tinker with the gorgeous old cars the Men of Letters had left behind. It was as close as his life was ever going to get to normal.

He rolled out from underneath the Impala, blinking at the bright garage lights, and sat up, wiping the grease off his hands with a rag he’d stowed in his pocket. From the corner, a Led Zeppelin song played on the radio, but everything else was quiet.

He glanced up at the old analog clock on the wall, startled to realize that he’d been in there for close to four hours already. He hadn’t seen Sam since breakfast, which was odd. Normally his brother would come in at least once to hang out for a while, carrying a book or two with him. Lately, though, Sam had barely left the library, poring over stacks of old books, looking for anything he could find about the tablets, the trials, or closing the gates of Hell. Dean was lucky if he got him to come to the kitchen to eat something, or go to his room at night to sleep instead collapsing onto a pile of books in exhaustion.

Pushing himself to his feet, he made sure all of his tools were put back in their proper places on the shelves in the corner, and went off in search of Sam.

The library was empty, even though Sam’s usual desk was still covered in books and messy piles of paper. So was the war room and the reading nook on the balcony above it. He was just about to head off to search Sam’s room when he heard a crash from the direction of the kitchen.

“Sam?!”

He rushed down the hall, practically tripping down the steps into the kitchen, only to come face-to-face with complete chaos. Mixing bowls and spoons were strewn about the countertops, the sink was littered with dirty dishes, and the pantry shelves had been nearly emptied onto the kitchen table in a jumbled pile of cans and boxes. And there in the middle of it all, stood Sam, looking as disheveled as his surroundings.

In his hand was an antique mechanical eggbeater. On the floor in front of him was a gloopy, chocolatey mess, mixed with the shards of what had recently been a large glass mixing bowl. Sam himself was covered in a fine layer of flour, and his hair was sticking out at weird angles, like he’d been running his hands through it in frustration.

“It slipped,” Sam explained, looking up at the sound of Dean entering the room. “We need an electric mixer.”

Dean just blinked at him in confusion. “What the hell, Sam?”

“Well, then I wouldn’t need to use two hands,” Sam continued, obviously under the impression that he was making some sort of sense. He took a step towards his brother, bare feet squelching on the messy floor.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dean quickly put out his hands, indicating to Sam to stop moving, and moved around to the other side of the kitchen island, pulling Sam backwards and away from the broken glass. Underneath his thin t-shirt, Sam was radiating heat, even as he trembled slightly with chills. “Why don’t we step _away_ from the broken glass, and you tell me what you’re trying to do?”

“You need a cake,” Sam answered, blinking wide-eyed at him as he turned around to look at his brother.

“I need a cake,” Dean repeated flatly, eyebrows raised as he prompted Sam for more information.

“A birthday cake,” Sam clarified.

“Sam, my birthday was three months ago.”

“I know, but—“ Sam broke off to cough roughly against the back of his hand, wheezing softly as he caught his breath. “We never—we never did anything. You—I didn’t get you a cake…”

“Since when have we ever celebrated birthdays?” Dean asked, completely thrown by his brother’s random display of sentimentality.

“You—I just…” Sam waved a shaky hand in the direction of the chaos on the countertop, as if that was enough of an explanation.

“Alright,” Dean murmured, “Alright. Here’s what we’re gonna do.” He left Sam’s side to quickly pull a metal bar stool over from the corner of the room, plunking it down on an area that wasn’t covered in glass shards. “You are gonna sit your ass down before you fall over or pass out. I’m gonna clean up your epic attempt at baking.”

“But—“

Dean held up a finger. “Ah-ah! And then,” he sighed. “I’m gonna make a cake.”

“You can’t make it yourself,” Sam replied, looking offended as he eased himself down onto the bar stool, leaning an elbow against a relatively clean portion of the stainless steel island.

“Dude. You know how many of my own birthday cakes I made when we were kids?” Dean said, already pulling a mop out of the tiny closet in the corner of the kitchen. “Didn’t happen to buy an extra box of cake mix, did you?” he asked as he swept the spilled cake batter from the floor, pulling the glass shards together into a small pile.

Sam pointed to a piece of paper among the mixing bowls. It looked a little worse for wear, slightly crumpled at one edge and dusted with a fine coating of flour, droplets of vegetable oil soaking through the paper in places. On it was a printed-out recipe for double chocolate cake with whipped chocolate frosting.

“Jeez, Sam, you never heard of Betty Crocker?” Dean chuckled. Leave it to Sam to do it the hard way.

Sam just blinked back at him, looking on the verge of exhaustion.

“You got a headache?”

“Mmm,” Sam murmured, rubbing absently at his forehead in response.

Dean turned around, grabbing a glass out of a cabinet and filling it with a bottle of water. From his pocket, he pulled out a small bottle of pills and shook one out into his hand, holding it out to Sam.

“Wha—uh…?” Sam leaned back, suspicious.

“Relax, it’s just Excedrin, migraine boy,” Dean answered, shaking his head in exasperation. “You forget that I’m with you practically twenty-four hours a day. You’re not hiding anything, Sam.”

Sam sighed, grudgingly accepting the pill and the glass, downing it in one gulp of water, coughing after he swallowed.

“You wanna go get some sleep?” Dean suggested, glancing up at his weary brother as he measured out flour from the jar on the island.

Sam shook his head emphatically, then stopped to grip the countertop tightly when that proved to be a slightly dizzying move. “No, I’ll stay. You shouldn’t be alone on your birthday,” Sam insisted. “Well, it’s not your birthday, but it’s kind of your birthday, and I’m staying right here…But I didn’t get you a present…” He rambled, before his loosely held together train of thought derailed completely.

“That’s okay, Sammy,” Dean answered, deftly breaking a couple of eggs into a bowl. “It’s not my birthday.”

“Yeah,” Sam replied, drawing tiny demon traps with his finger in the spilled flour. “Yeah, I know that. That’s why I’m making you a cake.”

Okay, so maybe Sam was teetering on the edge of delirium, but as long as he was still upright and not coughing up a lung, Dean let it slide. Instead, he quietly continued working his way through the cake recipe, keeping an eye on Sam the whole time.

An hour later, the kitchen counter was empty, the floor was mopped, the dishes were piled neatly in the sink, and the whole room smelled like chocolate. Sam was asleep at the kitchen table, wheezing softly with his head resting on his folded arms. On the kitchen counter sat a cooling chocolate cake, expertly frosted with chocolate buttercream, and missing one generously sized slice.

“Thanks for the birthday cake, Sammy,” Dean murmured to his sleeping brother, draping a soft blanket over Sam’s shoulders, before he settled down on the steps to wait for his brother to wake up.


End file.
